The Dryden Note

by Henry Hollensbe

  know everything about old typewriters. I talked with him, then flew there Thursday

  morning, but he was a washout. Got back to Atlanta late Thursday night. By Friday

  afternoon I had someone higher on the ladder at IBM and got the name of an alleged

  expert in Philadelphia. I flew to Philadelphia Saturday morning. The guy said the typing

  had been done on a machine with some skinny typeface—I forget the name. The

  typeface had died out in the U.S. around 1910 and there was no chance I would find a

  typewriter with that typeface.”

  McQuade nodded.

  “He explained my best bet was to find a machine with something called ‘Geisling’ as

  the typeface. We spent Saturday afternoon in one warehouse in Philly and another one in

  Baltimore Sunday morning. Late Sunday afternoon we had what he swore was a suitable machine. I flew back here Sunday night. I spent today typing the pages and getting the

  copies to look as you said.”

  McQuade nodded and left the DAD offices.

  He pointed at a foot high pile of photocopies stacked on the corner of his desk. “These are the documents Sloan’s man, Tyler, has been ranting about. Minutes of the Board of Director’s meetings of Cement Products from its inception through last year.”

  “What about this year’s?” “Nothing current. The government doesn’t need to know what we’re doing right now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The gofer will be here tomorrow morning.”

  June 1, Atlanta.

  Tyler took the box from Howard. “Need I return them?”

  “No, they’re yours. They’re photocopies.”

  “Well, these will do for now, but bear in mind I’ll have to see the originals before

  we’re finished here.”

  There was no response. McQuade entered Mangrum’s office, but stood with h is back against the door. “I take it from your approach, Daniel, that something is not going well for you.” McQuade described the altered minutes.

  Mangrum laughed. “Thought that up all by yourself, did you?”

  McQuade nodded.

  “But you’re afraid the forgeries won’t be accepted?”

  “Later, when I had time, I examined the copies and...”

  “You studied your copies after the altered copies went to these people? After you

  could have done anything about a problem?”

  “Your pressure on me to get the Ormand case...”

  “Goddamn it, McQuade.”

  There was no response.

  “So, let’s have it.”

  “There’s something not quite—I may have acted hastily.”

  “Mumble, mumble, mumble.” Mangrum was exasperated. “Spare me the details,

  Secretary. You’re in charge.”

  “It’s just—I’m not sure the documents will pass inspection and, worse, I can’t think

  of a fallback position.”

  “All right!” Mangrum walked to his window. “All right! I don’t have the time and

  it’s your job, but I’ll get involved in this goddamn thing myself.

  “And how will you...?”

  “What I’m going to do, Mr. Secretary, is show you what a spoonful of sugar can do!”

  Tyler laid four sheets of paper on Sloan’s desk. “There’s something odd about these four pages.” Sloan glanced through the four pages. “Minutes of the Board meeting of April 26, 1900. If there’s something wrong, you’ve got better eyes than I do.”

  “I can’t point to anything specific, but something’s not right.”

  Sloan shook his head. “I keep forgetting. I’m acting as if I were a graduate student with a limited budget. Go! Do whatever you need to do. Fly tourist and stay out of fourstar hotels, but other than that, satisfy yourself,” Sloan laughed.

  “Any ideas for me?”

  “No, but I know you don’t need any. Go!”

  Two hours later Tyler sat at his desk, staring at his telephone. At the first flash of light, he grabbed the handset. “Mr. Gilkey? Thanks for calling back.” Tyler listened to the response. “Fine. And yourself.” Tyler drummed his fingers on his desk as he learned about his caller’s health, the weather in Kentucky, and how to find the Gilkey farm.”

  “Yes,” Tyler said, “I have the directions. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Tyler reached for his big accountant’s briefcase and left for Hartsfield International Airport. Moments later, Bea stepped into the p rofessor’s office. “Telephone for you, Tom.” “Professor Sloan.”

  After a few seconds, Sloan sat erect. “Of course.” He listened again. “My pleasure,

  Ms. Peterson. 8:00, black tie, your lobby.” He listened a final time. “Please tell him I’m looking forward to the occasion.”

  Sloan shook his head in amazement.

  “Well?” Bea demanded.

  “I’ll bet you can’t guess where and with whom I’m having dinner tomorrow evening.”

  “You’re right,” she said.

  “Mangrum.”

  Evonne touched Mangrum’s number on her intercom. “Pro fessor Sloan has accepted.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Can I be of service?”

  “No, Paso will cook and David will serve. And Dove will greet my guest.”

  She replaced her handset, then lowered her forehead to her desk. Visions of Walter and the woman ran through her mind. She pounded a fist on the desktop, then thrust her body back in her chair and covered her eyes.

  Ransom Gilkey was indeed a retiree from the IBM typewriter manufacturing facility in Lexington, but the old man had known nothing of value regarding typeface. Tyler was crestfallen until the old man added he knew about a man who did know everything there was to know about typewriters and typeface.

  Chapter 8

  June 2, Dallas.

  Professor William A. Cullen, Jr., at Southern Methodist University’s Dedham

  College, had agreed to see Tyler after 4:00 the next day.

  The professor’s office was crowded with students.

  “Mr. Tyler?”

  Tyler nodded.”

  “Yes, I’ll be with you as soon as I run this rabble out of my office.”

  There was little difference in appearance between Cullen and his students. He hair was long, parted in the middle. He wore a golf shirt, World War II khakis, and sandals.

  “You’re a history professor?” Tyler said. “I had imagined an expert on typewriters would be an engineer of some kind.”

  “No, Greek and Roman history.”

  “But the interest in typewriters?”

  “A hobby, passed along from my father to me. And not typewriters as such. Letters. Typeface. The study of characters, from Sumerian cuneiform to those produced by today’s laser printers.”

  “I see,” Tyler said.

  “Now, to review your situation. You told me you have copies of old typed documents and you’re wondering why you are uncomfortable with what you see?”

  “Right.”

  “May I see the documents?”

  Tyler handed over a folder containing fifty-seven sheets of paper, copies of ICP Board meeting minutes.

  Cullen riffled through the pages hurriedly, then examined them one by one. When he had completed the detailed examination, he placed the top page, Page 1 of the minutes of the organizational meeting of Cement Products, Inc., dated July 17, 1895, under a magnifying desk light. He extracted a steel ruler from a drawer and began making measurements and taking notes.

  After five or so minutes, he reached for a thick book at the bottom of a nearby shelf. He leafed through its pages, and examined one, then a second page. “Amazing!”

  “What’s amazing?” Tyler said.

  “In a moment.”

  Cullen then turned to the first page of the minutes for April 26, 1900. He again measured and made notes.

  When he had completed his measurements, he looked at Tyler. “I’ve
formed an opinion.”

  “What was amazing?”

  “In a moment. Try to define the source of your discomfort.”

  “The pages don’t all have the same appearance to me. I got these copies after a great deal of wrangling with the provider, so my suspicions may be based more on how difficult it was to get them than any real perception on my part.”

  “I see.” Professor Cullen said, smiling, “Well, I’m impressed.”

  “Impressed at what?”

  “At your perception. Not one person in a hundred would have had even the vaguest impression there was something wrong.”

  “Then there is something...?”

  “Wrong? I don’t know enough to say that, but there’s certainly something irregular. The fonts.”

  “Fonts. As I see on my computer.”

  “Yes. Font refers to the design of the letters in a typeface, or, in a larger universe, the character. The Egyptian hieroglyphics had characteristic fonts. The characters in those beautiful books prepared by the medieval monks were specialized fonts. And so forth.”

  “OK.”

  “What we are concerned with here are the characteristics of the font. Wide or narrow, slanting or not, heavy lines or thin, and so forth.” Cullen paused. “Look at these two pages and tell me if anything comes to mind.” He handed the two pages he had most closely studied to Tyler.

  He looked from one to the other, then back again. “They look different—not the same.”

  “Let’s examine them closely.” He motioned for Tyler to come to his side. “Let’s start with the earlier page. Take my scale. Measure a series of words. Select some that will be repeated throughout the document. Let’s see—measure, hmm, measure just the two words ‘the Secretary’.”

  Tyler placed the zero-mark at the left of the leftmost ‘t’ and noted the distance to the right side of the ‘y’. “One inch exactly.”

  “Very good.” Cullen pointed at the two words on the second page. “Now measure the same two words here.”

  Tyler measured. “One inch and—and one thirtysecond. But can that be right?”

  “Of course. And that’s what disturbed you. The typefaces are not the same. This page has been typed in Höhe12,” he chuckled.

  “Höhe-dashtwelve?”

  “Produced in 1894 by a designer in Germany named Hans Wittig.”

  “I see.”

  “It had only a few years of use, being supplanted by a font named ‘Geisling’. It seems that, in its class, Höhe12 was deemed too light, too airy. ‘Effeminate’, one critic wrote.”

  “An effeminate font,” Tyler said, smiling.

  “Depends on one’s interest and expertise.”

  “Of course. But, Geisling, you say?”

  “Geisling. ‘Also elegant’, the critic wrote, but ‘more manly’.” Geisling is the typeface used for the four pages dated April 26, 1900. However, it wasn’t created until 1904.”

  “You’re certain? This is a very significant question for my associates and me.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Tyler smiled broadly. “May I have your observations in a form I can take with me?”

  “Of course.”

  The younger man seated himself at a nearby typewriter stand and began typing. History Department

  Dedham College

  Southern Methodist University Dallas, Texas 75275

  June 2, 1999

  To whom it may concern: It is my opinion that the seven pages appended hereto and dated July 17, 1895, were typed with a typeface (font) designated Höhe-12. The other four pages appended hereto and dated April 26, 1900, were typed with a typeface (font) designated Geisling.

  One may refer to A. E. Wiggins’ book, Fonts at the Turn of the Century, published by Seally House, for a detailed description of these two fonts and the date on which each first appeared.

  Very truly yours, Professor William A. Cullen, Jr. Department of History

  Dedham College

  Southern Methodist University

  “I’ll just append these pages, then we’re finished.” “That’s perfect, Professor.” Tyler said after he had read the letter. “May we pay you for your services?”

  “Not to me personally, but you can send a check to the Department here for whatever my help has been worth.”

  As Sloan stepped inside the Tower lobby the following evening, a woman in a lowcut, fulllength gown reached for his hand. “Professor Sloan?”

  He nodded.

  “I am Dove.”

  “Ma’am,” Sloan stammered. The black of the dress matched the hair and accentuated a perfect figure. The face was Eurasian and beautiful.

  “I’ll escort you to the Chairman.”

  “Professor Sloan?” The voice boomed from across the 80th floor lobby. Sloan turned toward the voice. “Yes. Mr. Mangrum?”

  “Yes.” Mangrum shook Sloan’s hand vigorously. “Welcome. I understand your

  friends call you ‘Tom’. May I as well?”

  “Of course.”

  “And I’m Walter. ‘Wally’ to my friends.”

  “Wally.” Sloan wondered how many friends a man such as Walter M. Mangrum

  might have and if any of them ever called him ‘Wally’.

  “We’ll be dining in a while, but perhaps you’d like me to show you around our

  executive suite?”

  “Please,” Sloan said. He gestured behind him, toward the closed elevator door. “And

  Dove?”

  “Is head of security for this facility.” Sloan contained his surprise. “She won’t be

  joining us.”

  “The building was completed in 1992. Chairman Earl White had long planned to gather all of our offices in Atlanta into a single facility. When he was diagnosed with inoperable cancer in 1990, he commenced this building; it was completed in less than two years. New construction techniques were developed and employed. It was an amazing performance, one that only Earl White and the resources of ICP could have accomplished. Earl lived to see it finished and to attend the grand opening. It is a suitable memorial to a great man.”

  Sloan did not offer agreement. Earl White had been a monster and everyone in the world’s business community had known it.

  “The building’s dimensions are one hundred feet by one hundred feet at this level. There is my office, which faces south, two smaller offices at the southeast and southwest corners, and an executive dining room and kitchen. The smaller offices belong to Herr von Scherner, our President, and Mr. Doucent, our Chief Operating Officer. Secretaries and support people sit inboard from these outer rooms. I’ll show you my office last.”

  Sloan said, “But...?”

  “You have a question?”

  “Well, yes. The space you’ve described seems to account for only half the floor? I...”

  “Yes, Tom, the other half of this floor is my living quarters.”

  Sloan computed. “Five thousand square feet?”

  “Small, I agree, but the former inhabitant was a humble man with few personal demands.”

  “A five thousand square foot apartment?”

  Mangrum snorted and laughed. “Compared to what one can find on Park Avenue, it’s humble.

  “Let’s look at Herr von Scherner’s space first.” Mangrum led Sloan through a series of doors to a large room with windows looking south and east. There was a museum quality to the appointments.

  “Doesn’t look used,” Sloan said.

  “It isn’t. Werner-Heinz Paul von Scherner is our nominal President. He has that position because of pressure from certain European and Asian shareholders. He flits about the world in one of our older Gulfstreams and spreading good cheer amongst our customers.”

  Sloan nodded.

  “I am CEO, of course, and Roger Doucent, an estimable man, is our Chief Operating Officer. I meet or talk with Roger two or three times each day. I contact Herr von Scherner via FAX when I must.”

  “Very forthcoming of you.”

  “Wer
ner’s function at ICP is no secret.”

  Roger Doucent’s o ffice was all business. The interior walls were covered with charts. Computer monitors and communications equipment were spread across the desk and surrounding tables.

  “I’ve encouraged Roger to add a little luxury to his office, but, though he pro mises, he never does.”

  Mangrum led Sloan back to the central area and opened one of the double doors to a huge office facing south. “I toil in these humble spaces,” he said, gesturing around the room. “When we last redecorated this floor, I decided to sacrifice a corner office in order to concentrate on this magnificent view.” His hand waved across the expanse of lights of the city toward Five Points. “And, because of that arrangement, I have the balcony all to myself.” A balcony, six feet deep and forty feet wide stretched beyond the floor-toceiling windows. Mangrum opened a door.

  Sloan followed him outside and looked southward toward the airport, then at the plaza seventy-nine stories below. He retreated from the balcony railing.

  Mangrum led Sloan back inside.

  The furnishings were American. There were pieces that looked as if they had been manufactured in Colonial times, slim and beautiful Shaker works, and a sprinkling of the Wild West.

  Sloan finished his initial scan. “Originals, I’m sure.”

  Mangrum smiled.

  Mangrum led Sloan through double doors leading to a dining room. The decor was Chinese.

  “Earl wanted this room to help reflect the breadth of our world-wide operations. Mustn’t even guess what he spent in here.”

  There was nothing that looked like preparation for a dinner. “We’ll be dining here?” Sloan said.

  “Oh, no. It’s much too grandiose in here. I have a little nook in my apartment.”

  Mangrum led his guest back to the lobby, thence through another pair of doors. The designer who had decorated Mangrum’s office had decorated his apartment as well. “As you can see, I like this style. And, truth be told, I’m not as concerned with such things as I might be.” He looked at Sloan. “I have other interests.”

  Sloan found himself more and more empathetic to the man and his outlook. “Such as running a world-wide business empire.”

  He smiled. “Let’s go in to dinner.”

  The dining room was in the northwest corner of the building. The outside walls were floor-to-ceiling sheets of glass, twelve feet wide, with views toward the mountains in the north and the rolling forests to the west.